


I'll Keep the King Safe From the Dark Things that Wait

by wildimaginingsofhalfbakedideas



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Slow Burn, but it is traumatic for the OFC involved, if you squint you'll see how soft geralt is for his bard, mentions of rape in later chapters, not involving geralt or jaskier at all, why communicate when you can fight?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:41:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22485775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildimaginingsofhalfbakedideas/pseuds/wildimaginingsofhalfbakedideas
Summary: Everyone has secrets. Jaskier didn’t consider himself to have any more secrets than anyone else necessarily, just perhaps his might shock those who knew him now more than the average hidden affair or past embarrassment. (Probably especially more than a hidden affair, given the reputation he had built for himself.)//aka Jaskier is a BAMF with a sword and Geralt doesn't know how to handle it.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 114
Kudos: 1159





	1. Secrets like dandelions in the sidewalk

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from "King" by The Amazing Devil
> 
> The rating may change when (if?) I add more.
> 
> Edit: So yeah, this is going to be a monster fic and I am powerless to stop it. Thank you for indulging me.

Everyone has secrets. Jaskier didn’t consider himself to have any more secrets than anyone else necessarily, just perhaps his might shock those who knew him now more than the average hidden affair or past embarrassment. (Probably especially more than a hidden affair, given the reputation he had built for himself.)

He considered himself very good at hiding it. Most days, even he forgot who he used to be before he became Jaskier, the travelling bard. He lived to perform. He loved the crowds, loved the feel of the lute in his hands, loved the moment when he knew he had an audience in his thrall. It was a type of power in itself, like how he imagined a siren must feel. Even the physical evidence only served to embellish his stories, the tiny cuts on his fingers were from the snapping of lute strings, not from hours upon hours of learning to fight with daggers and swords. The old, faded scars were from roaming the country, seeking out epic tales to bring back to these very taverns to regale its thirsty patrons. He wore only bright colors and light fabrics, silks and fine linens that acted as a different kind of armor, one that kept people looking at the surface rather than peering too close. He was Jaskier, the travelling bard, and no one knew any different, least of all himself.

Following the witcher from town to town, village to village, swamp to swamp, was its own kind of adventure and joy in which Jaskier revelled. Sure, he complained about the smells and the rough earth they slept on and the long days spent walking, but the truth was there was a part of him that had missed some part of this, the exertion, the danger. His heart rate spiked whenever a monster got too close and it spiked even higher when Geralt swooped in, eyes flashing either gold or full, shining black, and saved him. Jaskier still never armed himself, never wore actual armor or practical clothing of any kind. Besides, he barely even had need of his jeweled dagger now that he had the big, bad White Wolf to protect him. And Geralt never expected him to fight, never expected him to be useful in that way, so why break the pattern now?

Except, of course, that all secrets crave sunlight, like plants grown too long underground. Eventually, they will push their way to the surface. 

It happened on an ordinary, summer night. They had stopped to camp in a rather lovely meadow, one that Jaskier actually approved of, and it had all the makings of a pleasant evening. The fire was small and comforting, serving its purpose of roasting the two rabbits Geralt had caught for them in the nearby woods. Even the grumpy witcher seemed to be in good spirits. It wasn’t quite sunset yet, wouldn’t be for another half hour or so, and Geralt decided to go to the stream they had passed about a half mile back to clean his armor of the old blood and gore that had built up. Jaskier was content to stay at the camp and mind the rabbits, so Geralt just took one of his swords - the meteorite - and left, his passage far more silent that should be allowed for someone so large.

Jaskier sat in the quiet for a few moments, testing his ability to do so. Silence was by far the most dangerous thing he had ever encountered. That was when thoughts crept in, thoughts that ate you from the inside out and left you hollow for days. He lasted all of five minutes before he sighed and muttered a small, pitiful, “Fuck.” 

His eyes caught the firelight gleaming off the silver of the sword Geralt left behind, leaning invitingly against his pack. He could feel Roach’s judgemental eyes on him from over her dinner of meadow grass as he stood and walked toward it, but he ignored her. It was a bad idea. He knew it was a bad idea. When was the last time he had held a sword? Not since he’d left home. That was, what, ten years ago? Did he even remember  _ how _ ? Besides, it was  _ Geralt’s  _ sword. Geralt, who could very easily kill him even if Jaskier were armed and the witcher were not. Geralt, who would not be back for at least thirty minutes.

His fingers gripped the hilt and he pulled it smoothly from the sheath, marveling at the power he could feel in it. It was a heavy blade, a sword made for someone much larger than him. But, despite his fears, he felt his body remember what it was like to hold his own sword, to fight. He shifted into a defensive stance, his legs strong from all the walking and running involved in following a witcher from one end of the continent to the other. He moved slowly into an offensive position, learning the weight and balance of the silver sword. If he’d had  _ this _ growing up, he might not have hated sword fighting so much.

That was a lie. He never hated it, he just hated everything else about being Julian Alfred Pankratz, son of a nobody king of a nothing kingdom that had only ever known how to be a pawn in someone else’s war. He thrust the sword forward into an imaginary opponent before sweeping upward in a block. He grinned, a fierce joy rising in him with the knowledge that he hadn’t become  _ completely  _ useless with a blade. He began to move slowly, following the patterns ingrained in his memory from childhood, increasing speed as he flowed through the forms. Technically, they were the same moves every swordsman learns, but he was smaller than most soldiers - and faster - and was taught more how to weave himself around his opponent, searching for openings, than brute force attacks. The result was something almost balletic, something that had lent itself well to learning the complicated footwork of royal dances. Now, it was a flurry of half-pirouette, leap, dodge, parry, thrust, full pirouette, slash, dodge, parry, and so on and so on until he was sweating and his mind fought for equilibrium between the zen of battle calm and the tumult of remembering everything he had worked so hard to forget.

Finally he spun, the sword coming down in a vicious arc, but this time silver met steel and Jaskier gasped. He held his ground only by instinct, his grip on the handle of sword tightening automatically as his eyes met the golden eyes of the witcher. Eyes whose expression Jaskier could not read. Jaskier breathed harshly, the exertion setting his veins alight with adrenaline and endorphins, only to clash with the sharp fear of discovery.

Jaskier quickly stepped back and lowered the sword. He hadn’t heard Geralt return, didn’t know how long he’d been watching. He hadn’t even noticed the sunlight become replaced by the bright, pale light of the nearly full moon. He flipped hurriedly flipped the sword over to hand pommel first to Geralt, shame and fear mingling to choke the words in his throat for a gasping breath before they all began tumbling out in a confused, unintelligible jumble.

“I-I’m sorry, Geralt. I didn’t mean...I shouldn’t have just...I wasn’t trying to...Look, I swear I wasn’t just, you know, playing with it, like a child, I was just...can you please just take your sword back?” he finished weakly. He wished for eloquence. Normally, nothing could stop him from speaking, but now words felt as elusive as the shimmering stars above. Geralt was still staring at him, sword held loosely at his side. Jaskier gulped slightly. Was this going to be the final straw? The moment Jaskier crossed a line and could not be forgiven? He  _ knew  _ he shouldn’t have touched Geralt’s sword, he wasn’t even sure  _ why _ he did it. It was a reckless, impulsive decision made more out of the need to get the fuck out of his own head than anything solid like logic or reason.

Jaskier was definitely panicking now. He could feel his heart thumping in his chest, rabbit fast to escape the hunter. His lungs felt too tight. He felt his fingers twitch where they still held the sword and he wasn’t sure if he should keep holding it out or if he should do something else. Lower it to his side like Geralt? Set it down? Put it back where he found it?

“Say  _ something _ , Geralt, please. Even if it’s to yell at me.”

“I’m not going to yell at you.” Jaskier felt a rush of relief at hearing Geralt’s voice, finally, followed by confusion.

“So you’re not...mad?”

“Oh, I am angry. Yes.” Jaskier gulped audibly this time. 

“Uh huh. Okay. Um, how can I, um, make it better?” He was still holding the sword out. It was growing heavier by the moment.

“You can fight me.”

“I can  _ what _ ?” Jaskier squeaked. But before he could protest further, a blade was swinging towards his face and he dodged reflexively, pivoting on the ball of one foot as he simultaneously readjusted his grip on the sword to block the next blow.

“Geralt! Geralt, I don’t want to fight you!” he shouted uselessly, as blows continued to rain down. Jaskier blocked and dodged, pirouetted and leapt out of the way, but Geralt pursued him relentlessly. It had been a long time since Jaskier had really fought with a sword and his short practice bout with imaginary foes had already worn him out. Now, the heavy blade made his arm burn like liquid fire and his body was reminding him brutally that long daily walks are not the same thing as hours long training sessions with ruthless sword masters. 

Eventually, Jaskier started to get desperate. There was a part of him that wanted to just drop the sword and surrender, but he had never really been able to do that, even as Jaskier, the travelling bard. So he began to fight. He twisted beneath a blow and lashed out, fast and hard, striking Geralt with the flat of his blade. He didn’t want to actually hurt him, since Geralt was also obviously holding back for some reason, but he needed to prove that he could.

The hit stunned Geralt. He took a step back and looked at Jaskier for a moment in surprise before redoubling his attack. Again, Jaskier played a game of footwork and parrying to avoid getting hit. Geralt’s face was a mask of determination and Jaskier was almost offended by how little the fight seemed to be affecting the witcher’s breathing. The fighting pushed and pulled at them like tides of opposing seas clashing. Was Geralt...testing him? When Jaskier finally realized this in his adrenaline soaked brain, he knew how to end it. The question was timing. It came a lot faster than he expected when Geralt spun and extended his arm in a reaching slash that would have likely decapitated him if Jaskier hadn’t slipped beneath his arm and pressed close with his body to prevent Geralt from being able to easily counter, sword pressed to Geralt’s neck.

They paused like that, his body nearly in line with Geralt’s as they stared each other down. Jaskier could feel Geralt’s slow heartbeat through the thin fabric of his tunic, feel the soft puff of breath against the side of his face. Jaskier’s own breathing was so heavy it felt like that was the only sound in the entire forest, rivalled only by the thunder of his heart. Finally, Jaskier slowly lowered the sword to his side and took a step back.

“You’ve been able to do that this whole time.” Geralt’s tone was impressively hard to read, much more so than usual. There was the barest hint of annoyance beneath the flatness, but also something else that Jaskier couldn’t name.

Jaskier looked away. How do you explain to someone that the person you reinvented yourself into was  _ supposed  _ to be weak, at least physically? Jaskier didn’t even know where to begin with the explaining. He again held out the sword, pommel first, and waited. This time Geralt took it. Jaskier turned and walked back to the fire, sitting roughly on the ground in front of the now charred rabbits. He curled his right elbow around his knee and put his face into the hollow. He tried to calm his racing heart, his racing thoughts.

“Jaskier?”

Geralt was next to him now, only a couple feet away. It sounded like he was also either sitting or kneeling, though Jaskier didn’t look up to check. He kept his face hidden in his arm for another long moment, gathering himself. He had a decision to make. He could tell Geralt the truth. The truth he had been successfully hiding for ten years behind layers of joviality and reckless sex and songs and jokes and mindless chatter. Or, he could keep hiding. For some reason, the second option seemed worse.

He raised his head. “I’m not who you think I am,” he said. It was a hell of a story opener, if he did say so himself.

“Who are you then?” Geralt prompted, when Jaskier seemed to get a little stuck.

Jaskier cleared his throat, trying to get past the barrier he had built to keep himself from saying anything incriminating ever, to anyone. “I may have mentioned that my real name is Julian Alfred Pankratz. I like to throw that out there sometimes because it’s...nice, being somewhere where that name means nothing. I’m actually getting to a point where  _ Jaskier _ means a lot more than  _ Julian _ ever did so really, I think I’m doing great.” He picked up a small stone and tossed it into the fire, just to have something to do with his hands. It bounced lightly off a half-charred log before falling into the coals. 

“You haven’t actually explained anything, bard.”

“I’m getting to it,” Jaskier said with a sigh. Most of his usual flair had left him temporarily and he was just Julian again, no Jaskier to be found. “My father is the king of Yamurlak. Or, was, I guess. My brother rules now.”

“You’re a prince.” There was no inflection to imply that it was a question, but Jaskier answered it as such anyway. He still didn’t look over to see the witcher’s face, afraid of what he’d find there in his expression.

“Yes,” he said heavily. “And as you have seen, I am very princely. I’ve got all the princely characteristics. Which is why my brother was chosen for the throne and I was banished.”

“That seems a bit extreme.”

“I may have skipped a few details,” Jaskier conceded. “I  _ may _ have had an affair with a Redanian nobleman, which my family  _ may _ have disapproved of heartily, and my preference for singing and flirting rather than fighting and killing  _ may _ have already made me the black sheep of the family. It was all very dramatic, but not the ballad-worthy kind, I’m afraid.”

“Hmm,” Geralt commented insightfully. They were both silent for another long moment. “So you were banished from your kingdom, and you decide to become a bard and pretend you can’t fend for yourself?”

Jaskier laughed. “The bard thing came naturally actually. Like I said, I’ve always loved singing and I actually started playing the lute at the same age I picked up a sword. I’m pretty sure this life suits me far better than being a prince ever did.” He tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice, he really did. “But the way I was taught to fight is very distinctive. If I were to go around fighting all the time, someone would be bound to recognize me, or at least where I’m from, and that would cause more trouble than it’s worth. Honestly the trouble I get into normally can be solved with very little violence and if violence is needed, I can usually take care of it fairly quietly, surprising as that may sound.”

“And yet you made me come with you to that banquet to ‘protect you’ from jealous husbands. And you continue to follow me around without ever even trying to protect yourself.” This time, a bit more of the annoyance seeped into his tone. Jaskier noticed.

Still, he shrugged, unrepentant. “Maybe I just like having you around to protect me.” He winked at Geralt, and suddenly he felt more like himself. Not just the garrulous, flirtatious, confident Jaskier, but not just the slightly broken, hardened, quiet Julian either. A mix of both.

Geralt huffed at that, but he didn’t actually seem displeased. If it weren’t for the dying firelight possibly playing tricks on him, Jaskier might  _ almost  _ say that he saw the faintest trace of pink along the tips of Geralt’s ears. 

“Is that why you were really angry, Geralt? Because I hid this from you?”

There was a pause. “Yes. This whole time I thought you were helpless.”

Jaskier’s laughter was fuller this time. “Oh, I assure you, I quite enjoyed playing the helpless damsel. It’s been very fun.”

“Nearly getting killed by several types of monsters is  _ fun  _ for you?” Geralt was looking at him like he might be insane. Maybe he was.

“I’m still alive, aren’t I? Like I said, I knew you wouldn’t let anything happen to me, as annoying as you say I am. I was safe.”

Geralt was still staring at him. “That’s a lot to risk. You could’ve been killed, trusting me.” He sounded angry, but worse than that, he sounded wounded.

Jaskier stared back, quiet. For once, the silence didn’t gnaw at him. He just let it lie for a moment while he let the witcher see in his gaze just how wrong he was. “Geralt,” he whispered softly, “I trust you. I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you about this before.”

Geralt was the first to back down, looking away towards the embers of what had been their fire. 

“I just...I’m trying to understand,” Geralt said eventually, still staring into the fire.

Jaskier shifted himself closer. “Understand what, exactly? How I can be a prince? If it helps, I’m definitely not anymore, so it doesn’t really matter.”

“Not that.”

“The fighting thing?” Jaskier sighed and leaned back on his hands to look at the night sky. “I don’t like fighting. Well, that’s not true. I don’t like killing. But that’s the way most fights end so I prefer not to fight at all, if I can avoid it. Even as a child I would rather talk my way out of trouble than pull my sword. Markus - my brother - was always saying I was weak for that. Perhaps he was right.”

“I don’t think he was.”

Jaskier turned his head. “What?”

Geralt cleared his throat and in the glint of the moonlight Jaskier could see his adam’s apple travel down and up quickly. “I don’t think he was right. I don’t think you’re weak for not wanting to kill people. You just...care too much, I think.” Before Jaskier could get offended he added, “Not in a bad way just...I don’t know.”

“Empathy. You mean I’m too empathetic to kill.”

“Hmm.”

They sat in companionable silence, each lost in their own thoughts, before Jaskier broke it again. “Thank you.” His voice was soft in the quiet. “For understanding.”

“You’re welcome.” Another long pause stretched comfortably. “And, I don’t mind keeping you safe, Prince Julian.”

Jaskier’s smile was wide and brilliant enough to rival the moon. 


	2. Questions in the Morning Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt tries to figure out his emotions. He's only marginally successful.

The next morning, Geralt awoke just as the first rays of sun were lightening the horizon. The moon was still visible, but it was like a ghost of what it had been last night, a reminder of everything that had happened.

Geralt sat up in his bedroll and looked over at Jaskier -  _ Julian _ \- and furrowed his brow. The two of them had been travelling together for years, getting into one shitstorm after the next, and Jaskier seemed to have never shut up the entire time he’d known the man. And yet...and yet he’d never said anything of real consequence, Geralt realized. He’d never said a word about his childhood, or even where he’d learn to play the lute. If Geralt thought about it, the stories he’d told about the various scars on his body always changed, malleable as any truth the bard, the  _ prince _ , twisted into his songs and tales. 

When Geralt had returned from washing his armor, moving as silently through the forest as he always did, the last thing he expected to see was Jaskier holding his sword. At first, seeing the weapon in the bard’s hands, he’d had the urge to rush into the meadow and take it from him, like an angry parent taking something dangerous from a foolish child. But then he saw. He watched the way Jaskier held the sword, the way he’d moved with such grace and finesse and agility through forms that were obviously well rehearsed, but improvised enough to contain the unpredictability necessary in a real fight. He’d been frozen in the spot, struck dumb by the sight before him. He knew how heavy his sword was, knew that for the untrained or the weak, it was impossible to hold aloft for more than a minute or two, yet Jaskier was handling it fine. More than fine. Geralt didn’t know how to process that.

Then, slowly, the anger trickled in. This man, this  _ fool _ , had willingly, brazenly, waltzed into every dangerous situation imaginable over the past  _ decade _ , unarmed, with no intention of protecting himself whatsoever. He’d nearly let himself be killed time and time again for  _ nothing _ when he could have been  _ defending himself _ . Every moment Jaskier had ever cowered before a monster or angry human flashed in his mind, the brightly colored memories tinged with remembered exasperation and anxiety. Why in the name of all the gods had Jaskier hidden this? Was he suicidal? Was he just a much bigger idiot than Geralt had ever imagined?

Geralt remembered stalking forward, mind blank with rage. He didn’t remember swinging his sword, but he could almost still hear the ring of metal clashing when his own silver blade met meteorite. 

Geralt sighed quietly to himself as he got up and started packing the camp. Jaskier was still asleep, twitching slightly as he dreamed, and wouldn’t wake for at least another hour. Geralt tried to figure out why he had initiated the fight to begin with. All he knew in the moment was that he was angry, they were both armed, and he needed to know just how much talent Jaskier had hidden away from him all this time. 

He’d held back, of course. No human, no matter how skilled or well trained, could withstand the full onslaught of a witcher, but still, he kept pushing harder and harder when Jaskier refused to back down. The first hit Jaskier had landed, flat-bladed because Jaskier was, above all else, a  _ fool _ , had rocked Geralt back on his heels, off kilter. It had taken him a beat too long to recover, but Jaskier hadn’t pressed his advantage, and for some reason that just made Geralt angrier. He pushed forward, slicing, thrusting, parrying, lunging, until finally, Jaskier did something totally unexpected. He slipped past Geralt’s offensive and pressed himself close, too close, his sword,  _ Geralt’s  _ sword, pressed against his neck.

Again, Geralt had frozen, a deer caught in the gaze of a wolf. He’d listened to Jaskier’s heart beating wildly in his chest, watched the sweat roll gently from his forehead down the side of his face, before sliding down his throat. Jaskier’s breathing was harsh, his ribs expanding into the witcher’s own chest with almost as much violence as their fight. Geralt had wanted to move away, to say something, to do anything but stand there and stare down at him, but he was as immobile as a statue.

And then of course, the revelation. Geralt hadn’t even unsnarled his own feelings from their confused, angry ball before it seemed like Jaskier had gotten to the heart of them, prodding aside the spiked and jagged edges with the intensity of his blue-eyed stare as he assured the witcher, with the earnestness he imagined only the bard was capable of, that he trusted him. That keeping this secret from him was not because he was scared of Geralt. And, against everything and everyone that had ever taught him that witchers were nothing but untrustworthy monsters, Geralt had believed him. It both settled something in his chest and unmoored something that felt far more dangerous, setting it adrift with no destination that Geralt could yet see.

Still feeling discomfited and out of sorts, Geralt finished packing up camp, minus the bard’s bedroll, given that it was still being used, and triple checked that the fire had been properly put out. Finally, with no other means of stalling, Geralt shook the sleeping man’s shoulder.

Jaskier had been in the middle of a dream. It was clear from the way he’d been twitching and moving in his sleep, but Geralt was unprepared for the reaction he had upon being woken. Jaskier jolted awake, his left hand darting out to Geralt’s throat at the same time his right snaked under his pillow. Before Geralt could react, however, Jaskier’s conscious mind caught up with his body and he let go, snatching his hand back to his own chest. 

“Sorry! Sorry. I don’t know what I - well, I thought you were - I was dreaming.” Jaskier was rambling again as he had the night before, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip. 

“It’s alright,” Geralt tried to reassure him. He hadn’t moved, not wanting to startle Jaskier again by moving too quickly. Curiosity got the better of him though, and he asked, “What were you dreaming about?”

Jaskier’s mouth turned down in a frown. His face was so terribly expressive. “Just some...old memories dredged up by holding a sword again after a decade of actively avoiding it. Nothing to worry about.” He smiled, but the smile seemed thinner than usual, not quite reaching his eyes.

“Hmm.”

Geralt finally moved away and let Jaskier get up. He turned his back on the bard, listening to the sounds of him packing his bedroll and checking his lute before strapping it to his back. Geralt found himself petting Roach for comfort and she turned to blow softly on his face, wisps of his hair drifting back from her affection.

He had been afraid that the events of the previous night would make the day’s journey awkward, but Jaskier filled the silence with his usual chatter, complaining loudly about his aches and pains and his desire for a warm, soft bed.

“Your sword is  _ heavy _ , Geralt, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed this, but it’s far heavier than the one I used to use and did I mention it’s been at least ten years since I’ve actually fought anyone with a sword? My body does not appreciate the abuse, let me tell you. I feel like I used to after training with Master Aurelius, and that was always at least a twelve hour nightmare of never-ending pain. And I say never ending because you always hurt for at least a week after he was done torturing you. I must say, it’s strange to talk about this. I haven’t actually spoken of home at all since -”

Jaskier suddenly broke off, as though his voice was being choked by an unseen force. Geralt looked back at him in alarm. He seemed fine physically, no immediate danger that the witcher could see, but there was a look of absolute pain on his face that made Geralt’s hand itch for his sword anyway.

Then, as suddenly as it had come, the pained expression faded away to be replaced by a too-brilliant smile and Jaskier kept up his usual one-sided conversation. “Anyway, I’m glad we’re going to be stopping at an actual town tonight. I hope there will be a good contract for you. Both for the coin and for the story I’ll get to write out of it. And did I mention soft beds? And baths, Geralt! We can both stop smelling like we’ve been rolling in mud and selkiemore guts for the past week, won’t that be lovely?”

“Hmm,” Geralt agreed. The stench of his armor and unwashed skin was starting to get to him as well, though he’d certainly had worse. Perhaps hanging around the bard was starting to affect him in more ways than he’d realized.

They kept walking and Jaskier kept talking, occasionally bringing out his lute to try out new lyrics or practice for his performance at the local tavern tonight. As he did, Geralt thought about what Jaskier had cut himself off from saying. It seemed like the story was worse than Jaskier had let on last night. What had he said? Something about being the black sheep of the family and a Redanian nobleman. The intricacies of human interaction often eluded the witcher, but Geralt knew that in some kingdoms it was not permitted for men to be with men or women to be with women. It wasn’t a widespread custom, to prohibit certain forms of love, but he’d heard of it, had seen the dire effects that kind of hatred had on people.

He’d known that the bard loved freely, of course, regardless of gender. He’d noticed that the bard only spoke of the women, only openly courted that half of the population, but Geralt was a witcher and if Jaskier thought he was hiding all of his other lovers while the two of them were literally travelling together, then the bard was indeed an idiot. Geralt just hadn’t cared because it hadn’t mattered who the man bedded as long as it didn’t put his life in danger. Unfortunately, it often did.

He was still mulling all of this over in his head when they finally approached the town in the early afternoon, trying to put together the puzzle that was Jaskier, the travelling bard, and finding he was missing far more pieces than he had realized.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is starting to grow out of hand, but I regret nothing. Prepare for several more chapters and a slow burn.


	3. Monsters, mages, and mysteries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Jaskier come across a town looking for a witcher. Everything is not as it seems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I said this got away from me? Yeah. This story is in my brain, begging to be written, and who am I to deny the Muses?
> 
> Also have I mentioned lately that I love Jaskier? Because I do.

The sun shone high in the sky as the two of them walked towards a tiny town in the middle of nowhere, turning the back of Jaskier’s neck pink. There was a bounce in his step as they neared, his body thrumming with the anticipation of ale and good food and beds for the night. He was also looking forward to performing, needing the reminder of who he had fought so hard to become now more than ever. Roach joined him in his eagerness, picking up her pace to a trot as she recognized that she would be able to sleep in a stable with fresh hay and, since neither Geralt and Jaskier could resist spoiling her, treats of carrots and apples as well.

They had gotten lucky; there had indeed been a flyer posted en route asking for a witcher. It offered no details about the monster that was terrorizing the locals, but it did assure that the need was dire and that the pay would be worthwhile. Jaskier nearly skipped down the road in his cheer, talking to fill the silence as he always did. Silence, in his opinion, was one of the most terrifying monsters in this world.

However, as they stepped past the first rows of houses, Jaskier didn’t even need Geralt’s low warning. The streets were too quiet, empty. There were no children playing, no artisans or farmers selling their wares, no pedestrians ambling to and fro. It was like a ghost town. Eerie. Silent.

Jaskier shivered and pulled back his eager steps so that he was again behind the witcher. Against the past ten years of trying to retrain his brain, his fingers itched for a weapon. The dam had broken and Jaskier felt unsure of who he was anymore: the bard or the prince, the poet or the soldier. 

They continued on cautiously. Geralt sniffed the air as they went, inhaling deeply, but Jaskier couldn’t smell anything beyond the normal smells of a town full of people. Or, a town that used to be full of people. Roach whinnied quietly and Jaskier instinctively reached out to comfort her. It had been a while since that first day he and Geralt had met when the White Wolf had growled at him to never touch his horse. Now Jaskier might even go so far as to say he and Roach were friendly. She seemed to tolerate him, at least, the same as Geralt, and he took as much comfort from patting her warm neck as he was trying to give her.

Jaskier caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned abruptly, but there was no monster, just a curtain falling back over a window.

“Geralt,” he whispered, “why is everyone hiding in their houses?”

Geralt didn’t answer. 

They were nearing the center of town now, where the bustle of life should be it’s loudest and most chaotic. Instead, they were met with more unsettling quiet.

“Witcher.” A sudden voice from their right made them both turn, Geralt’s hand instantly wrapping around the hilt of his sword. Jaskier settled for keeping one hand on Roach.

“Who are you?” the witcher in question asked, his voice gruff with stress and the barely restrained violence that simmered beneath his skin.

The woman before them was older, clearly at least in her sixties, but she still looked strong, her shoulders and arms well defined beneath her tunic. She had the look of someone who had known battle, who had fought for whatever peace life had granted her. Jaskier could see a thin scar running down the line of her jaw, stark white against her weathered, sun-brown face. Now, however, there was no peace in her emerald eyes that sharply assessed the two men before beckoning them toward a house farther down the road. She didn’t wait for their response before setting off at a brisk pace.

They followed her to the thick oak door of what Jaskier assumed was the woman’s home. It was set off the road on a large swath of property, set slightly apart from the other houses. Ever the lover of beauty and art, even in situations like this, he couldn’t help but notice the delicate carvings around the doorframe depicting vines, flowers, woodland animals, and, to his surprise, very accurately carved monsters.

She ushered them inside, indicating wordlessly for them to leave Roach in her front yard, outside her living room window. Jaskier knew that Geralt felt even more anxious than he did about leaving the loyal horse out in the desolate yard unprotected, but they had no choice. It helped that they would be able to see her if they parted the curtains to check on her, which could perhaps have been the woman’s intention. Or not, Jaskier couldn’t be sure. They followed the woman in and watched as she barred the door and shut the curtains before leading them further into the house. Once they had finally settled into the kitchen, Jaskier couldn’t keep his silence any longer.

“I love mystery as much as the next man, but I have to say this might be taking it a bit too far, don’t you think? Not that your home isn’t lovely, of course - did you build this yourself? Marvelous. - but I’m just wondering why we had to be dragged all the way in here before you would say more than one word to us.”

The mystery woman sighed and sagged against the counter, meeting his gaze with a weary, heavy look. “The reason, dear bard, is that this town has been cursed. We are marginally safer indoors, but it is still dangerous to speak of it wherever we are.”

“What sort of curse?” Geralt asked.

“Five months ago, a witch came to town.” Jaskier saw Geralt’s expression darken at the word ‘witch’. “She wasn’t like any mage I’d ever seen. I’m not even certain she was of the Brotherhood. She set up shop in town, offering magical assistance to anyone who had the coin to pay for it, and lived fairly quietly for the first few weeks. I didn’t kick her out because she seemed peaceful and she was actually helping folk around here. She also seemed a little lost, if I’m being honest. Like she was trying to start over.”

“Sounds like maybe you recognized that feeling,” Jaskier blurted before he could stop himself.

The woman smiled wryly. “Yes, I suppose I did. It was a mistake though, to allow her to remain, to not question her true motives. People started acting strangely after about a month, and it only got worse from there. Livestock started dying mysteriously. Two boys went missing about a month ago. We sent out search parties, of course, but we found nothing and several of those people did not come back from the search.”

“Acting strangely how?” Again, Geralt got straight to the heart of the matter.

“It was like they started...acting out of base instinct, like animals. Some people stopped talking all together, just grunting and making sounds like they were some sort of feral creature.” It took everything in Jaskier’s power to not make a comment at that. “Fights began to break out all the time, couples that had been married for years suddenly broke apart and began sleeping with other people. And the  _ children _ . I fear the children really did become feral. Snarling and biting and snapping over food and possessions. It seems to break at dawn and get worse as the day progresses, like a never ending loop. Or it did. Now it seems like even the rising sun does nothing to bring humanity back to these people.”

“How are you not affected?” Jaskier asked curiously. “You seem human enough to me, using full sentences and everything. And it’s nearly nightfall now.”

The woman grimaced slightly. “I’m afraid I have an advantage over the rest of the town. I have a bit of magic myself, though I was never properly trained, and I protected myself as best I could when I first realized what was happening. I still...find it difficult sometimes to resist acting impulsively.”

“Hmm.”

“And where is this lovely witch now, if I may ask? It seems to me like it would have been a very bad idea for her to linger after casting her ingenious enchantment, given that she would likely have already been mauled to death by now. So I’m guessing she has fucked off to places unknown?”

“You are partially correct, bard. She left the town after the first signs of unnatural violence, but it’s no secret where she is. There is a small cottage in the woods, a few miles from here, where she is currently living.”

“The better to watch her chaos unfold, no doubt.”

“Yes, I would assume so.”

Geralt, of course wanted to leave immediately for the witch’s lair, but the woman hiring him quickly shut that idea down. “Witcher, it is too dangerous, even for you, to pursue her after dark. I have seen how her power grows at night, feeding off the misery of my poor town, and I have sensed some of the traps she has placed around that place. Better to rest here until daybreak.”

Jaskier had been quick to see the reason in her argument, but Geralt had grumbled for several minutes before relenting. Eventually it was decided that they would both sleep in what used to be her son’s bedroom.

“Used to be? Was he...one of the boys that went missing?”

Jaskier could feel the heaviness of her heart in her response. “Yes, he was. I suppose the witch was frustrated that I seemed immune to her magicks and decided to take him as a means of harming me instead. He was only seven.”

“I’m so sorry,” he said, pouring all the sincerity of his feelings into those words, placing a gentle hand on her arm. After a moment of respectful silence, Jaskier continued, “You know, after all this, we still don’t know your name.”

Thankfully, his distraction, meager though it was, seemed to snap her out of the spiral of grief that was drowning her. “Oh! I didn’t even realize. My name is Rana. I am the alderman here.” Jaskier felt faint surprise at that. It was rare for a woman to be elected to that position, for reasons Jaskier could not fathom. For her to be chosen as alderman, she must be very formidable indeed. 

“A pleasure to meet you, Rana, despite the circumstances. I am Jaskier, travelling bard and companion to this witty conversationalist, Geralt of Rivia.”

The corners of her mouth turned up slightly. Not quite a smile, but leagues better than her expression had been moments before. “Yes, I know who you are, Jaskier. And you as well, White Wolf. I have heard the songs.”

Geralt seemed surprised at the note of amused praise in her tone, no doubt too used to the typical hatred and disgust that he was usually met with when people realized who he was. He gave a small grunt of acknowledgement at her words, which was more than Jaskier expected honestly, so he was satisfied.

Before he would go to sleep, Geralt insisted that Roach be looked after. Rana seemed hesitant to allow them back outside, but one look at Geralt’s fierce expression made her huff an exasperated sigh and point them in the direction of her stables, only a few yards away from the house. It never failed to make a warm smile cross Jaskier’s face when he saw how gentle Geralt was with his horse, how he stroked her nose and apologized for leaving her for so long, uncomfortable and alone in a dangerous place. The horse had bumped his chest with her head, seeming exasperated, but begrudgingly affectionate. Jaskier had apologized as well, his fingers combing through her mane as Geralt unbuckled the saddle and found a brush for her coat. Once Roach was unsaddled, brushed, fed, and watered and had nearly forgiven them for leaving her outside like that for so long, both men went back into the house to sleep the last few hours til dawn. Rana led them to the room they’d be sharing and handed them fresh linens and quilts for the bed. They smelled of lavender soap and sunshine, an odd contrast to the heavy weight that permeated the air.

It was oddly routine to get ready for bed with Geralt. They had shared rooms often enough throughout the years, whenever they lacked the coin to get separate beds, and they hardly exchanged words as they maneuvered around each other in the small space, shedding armor, boots, and outer layers. 

In the dark, once they were settled and sleep waited patiently in the wings, Jaskier found the courage to speak. “Geralt.” A grunt, showing he was listening. “Now that you know, I could be helpful. I told you I don’t like fighting - and I still don’t - but I dislike being useless even more. I can come with you tomorrow.”

A long silence reigned. Then, “I’ll consider it.”

Jaskier fell asleep with a small smile on his face.


	4. The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So, you’re saying if I can find a sword, then I can come with you?”
> 
> Jaskier gets himself a pretty sword.

As usual, the first teasing rays of dawn had Geralt already out of bed and moving, donning his armor and swords in preparation to battle a fucking witch. He felt as though he might be cursed to always be fighting egotistical mages. 

This morning, however, Jaskier was awake nearly as soon as his feet touched the bare wooden floor. He felt the bard stir behind him, limbs stretching and spine cracking as he pulled himself to consciousness. Jaskier didn’t speak as he got dressed and washed his face in the small wash basin Rana had provided.

It was odd to not hear Jaskier’s chatter. Even upon first waking, the man was usually talking away about this and that, wondering how the day was going to go, musing about breakfast, generally filling the silence. Geralt wondered how much of it had been a part of his guise as  _ Jaskier, the travelling bard _ and if  _ Julian, the prince _ was usually silent. He couldn’t imagine a silent Jaskier and, to his surprise, he didn’t want to. Jaskier’s voice was a part of who he was and to take that away was to take away something...essential. It made an uneasy feeling sink into his stomach.

“Have you considered?” the bard asked, once they were both dressed and Geralt’s hand was on the handle of the door. 

Geralt had considered. He’d thought about what Jaskier said long after the bard had fallen asleep, his warm back pressed against Geralt’s own in the narrow bed. How often had he chided Jaskier for being useless in a fight, trying to make him stay behind on a hunt, safe and warm in a tavern somewhere close by? It felt like the world had been turned on its head now that there was a chance that Jaskier would fight alongside him, sword in hand. Which raised another problem. Jaskier didn’t even have a sword. He had proven that he could weild Geralt’s (and Geralt was  _ not  _ going to think about that. Too many strange, wriggling feelings in his chest.) but Geralt wasn’t going to just hand one of them over to him for an actual fight.

“You don’t have a sword,” is what slipped past his lips, like his brain-to-mouth filter was temporarily broken. He hoped that Jaskier would conveniently notice that his answer wasn’t an outright ‘no’.

Hopes, however, are meant to be dashed. “So, you’re saying if I can find a sword, then I can come with you?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you implied.”

A beat. Geralt ran his hand down his face tiredly. “Fuck. Alright. Find a sword and you can come with me.”

The idiotic bard seemed far too pleased with that answer, grinning at him like Geralt had just told him he was giving him a puppy instead of a chance to fight and potentially be killed by a dangerous, powerful witch.

Geralt sighed. “Let’s go.”

As it turns out, it was not difficult at all for Jaskier to procure a sword for himself. All he had to do was ask Rana. She disappeared into her bedroom and came back with a long bundle wrapped in cloth. She laid it on the table and gently removed the dark fabric, revealing a rather beautiful sword underneath. It was long, perfect for Rana’s height as she stood about an inch taller than Jaskier, and had a sheath of sand brown leather. A fiery jewel seemed to flicker and burn in the pommel, catching the rays of morning sun. Rana slowly pulled the blade from the sheath and the blade too seemed to shimmer gold in the sunlight.

He heard Jaskier suck in a gasp. “You were a Nomad of Korath.”

Rana looked at him sharply in surprise. “Yes. I know of very few people who would recognize my blade. How do you know of the ways of Korath?”

Jaskier shrugged, eyes still on the golden sword. Further inspection showed that the blade was not actually made of gold, but glimmering steel. “I’ve met a few soldiers of the Magne Division. Not a pleasant experience for anyone involved, but I do remember the tales of the devilish outlaw nomads, rumored to be born of fire to be able to survive the Frying Pan.”

Geralt stared at him. He was beginning to think he would never stop being surprised by him. Even Geralt had never travelled far enough south to meet anyone who’d been to the Korath Desert. Not many people survived such an experience to tell the tale.

“Well, I certainly see why the White Wolf finds you interesting enough to travel with all these years,” Rana said, looking as awed as Geralt secretly felt. “I haven’t used this blade in years, haven’t wanted to revisit that part of my past. Perhaps now it can be put to good use, in your hands.”

Jaskier blushed a faint pink across his cheekbones and the back of his neck. “I hope so, Mysterious Rana. I thank you for allowing me the privilege of borrowing it.” 

“Just see that you come back safely. Both of you,” she added, looking meaningfully at Geralt. “I can also promise you both that you will be well compensated for your trouble.”

Geralt felt doubly surprised by her words, first for the intensity with which she bid him return alive (since when do strangers care if he lives or dies?), and second for the fact that he hadn’t even asked about the cost of this before now. He mentally blamed Jaskier for distracting him and making him forget how to do his damn job.

“Hmm.” And with that, Geralt went out to the small stable to see to Roach before their trip into the woods. She would be staying behind, since it was a short trip and he didn't want to put her in danger unnecessarily, so he wanted to make sure she had everything she needed beforehand. He heard Jaskier follow him a few moments later, jogging lightly to catch up, boots whispering against the grass. 

Once he was next to him, Jaskier bumped his shoulder against Geralt’s, a grin on his face. “I found a sword, Geralt!” he said unnecessarily. “That means I get to come with you.”

“Hmm.” Jaskier didn’t seem perturbed by his lackluster response, instead grinning wider and rushing forward to tell Roach that they were going on another adventure. Perhaps things hadn’t changed with the bard as much as he’d thought.

Jaskier was still talking as they made their way to the edge of the woods. “How about Rana, huh? I quite liked her!” Jaskier proclaimed, his left thumb rubbing reverently over the jewel in the pommel of his borrowed sword. “A little scary, but I seem to like that in a person so that’s all well and good. She seemed rather nice, actually, once you got past all the scary bit. And a woman alderman! Very impressive, I must say. Not surprising, given her previous life. Desert nomads are a fierce lot at the best of times. Strange though, that her son is only seven, don’t you think? I mean, she had to be, what, sixty, sixty-five? Little past child bearing age, if I know my biology and I assuredly  _ do... _ Geralt?”

Geralt had unconsciously stopped at Jaskier’s last observation. How had he not noted that before? It  _ was _ odd for a woman of Rana’s age to have a child so young. And there had been no mention of the boy’s father. A trickle of unease ran down his spine. 

“You’re right,” he said, surprising the bard. “It is strange.” He resumed walking, trusting that Jaskier would catch up once he managed to close his mouth.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that first bit. It sounded a lot like ‘you’re right’, but that couldn’t have been it because that would require you to  _ acknowledge _ -”

“Jaskier.”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

Astonishingly, Jaskier did. For about two minutes. “I wonder what this witch really wants anyway. I mean, she surely has a purpose to all this other than just causing havoc, right? Very few people do things just to do them, there’s usually a reason. The effects are strange as well, don’t you think? Bringing out people’s base natures, taking away their control. There’s a line in there somewhere about reciprocity and revenge, I’m sure. A woman who felt robbed of her humanity and control decides to take it away from the people she blames for her suffering.” He paused, lost in thought. “All just conjecture of course, a ballad in the works, based on nothing but spare details. My true talent in life, if I may say so myself.”

Geralt grunted, forced to acknowledge, yet again, that Jaskier’s insight was shockingly helpful. “That’s not...an unreasonable assumption, actually.”

Jaskier gasped, making Geralt grimace. “Two compliments in one day, Geralt! I might die of a heart attack before we ever even meet this witch.”

“I can go back to telling you to shut up. In fact, please do.”

Jaskier giggled delightedly. It made him sound young and far more innocent than he was. “No way. You’re just upset that you, the emotionally stunted man that you are, actually expressed positive feelings toward me. Admit it.”

“No.”

“Come on, admit it.”

“I said no.”

“Fine,” Jaskier huffed. “Doesn’t matter anyway. I know you, Witcher, no matter how terrifying that is for you. You don’t have to say it for me to know.”

Geralt had nothing to say to that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I will get to the actual fight/plot soon
> 
> **EDIT: So tiny little edit made to this chapter because I decided Roach isn't coming with them for this adventure. She gets to stay behind and rest for once with a nice pile of hay.


	5. Just Because We Were Animals (Doesn't Mean We Couldn't Have Been Men)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never walk straight into a trap, even if you're a witcher.

The cottage Rana had directed them to was a surprisingly quaint, lovely place, one wall covered in ivy dotted with tiny white flowers. It was nestled in a small clearing near a lazily flowing stream, surrounded by tall, proud trees whose leaves allowed bright shafts of sunlight to filter through to the vibrantly green ground below. It was the type of place that invited weary travelers to come and rest, sweet smelling smoke drifting from the chimney curling to their noses to tell their empty bellies of warm food to be had and safe lodgings. 

The idyllic nature of it was startling. Jaskier could almost feel in his bones the desire to rest here, the feeling of safety and peaceful isolation sweeping into him. It must be magic, he decided. A glamour to lure the unsuspecting into the witch’s trap. Still, he breathed deeper to take in the scent of burning firewood and meadow grass, his fingers hesitant on the handle of his borrowed sword.

Geralt was silent next to him, but Jaskier knew he was thinking the same from the way his eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared. The witcher was looking in every direction with the caution of a hunted animal waiting for the predator to strike. Jaskier tried to steady himself and remember why they were there. If only his stomach would stop rumbling with hunger and his body would stop aching for sleep.

They approached the cottage slowly, Geralt slightly in front, but nothing jumped out to attack them, no cackling sorceress with lightning in her hands, not even a scurrying squirrel on his way to find more food to hoard away for the always approaching winter. The unnatural stillness made Geralt’s shoulders tense further and Jaskier tightened his hold on his sword hilt.

Geralt knocked on the door. It seemed an oddly polite thing to do, considering they were here to fight her, but Jaskier didn’t comment for once. He felt his mind becoming foggier the closer they came to the door and was trying to fight it off the best he could.

“Perhaps she’s not in?” he suggested lightly, when no response came after a moment.

“She’s here,” Geralt grunted. Jaskier didn’t ask how he knew.

Then, the door opened. By itself. “Oh, that’s not a good sign,” Jaskier muttered. The inside of the cottage was dark and it smelled of damp and mold, jarring after the bright, sweet exterior.

Geralt didn’t even acknowledge him with a grunt as he stepped boldly over the threshold, drawing his sword. It was the steel one, Jaskier noted. The monster they were hunting today was human, after all.

Once they were both inside, the door slammed shut behind them and Jaskier squeaked in alarm. It shouldn’t be this dark inside. The cottage had windows and there had been a fire pouring smoke into the chimney. Yet Jaskier couldn’t even see Geralt, whose slow, even breaths he could hear just in front of him.

“Hello, Witcher,” a female voice greeted from the darkness. Jaskier decidedly did  _ not _ jump, though it was a near thing. “Have you come to kill me for harming those poor, innocent towns people?” Her voice was like syrup, sugary and slow, pouring into the air around them. It was a voice that could almost be described as pleasant if it weren’t for the barely concealed malice beneath the surface.

Jaskier had never been one to hold his tongue in the face of anything that terrified him, however, so he spoke before Geralt could open his mouth. “Actually, we just came for a bit of a chat. Wondered if you might have a spot of tea with us and discuss your motives. You know, just being friendly.”

He could nearly feel Geralt’s exasperation rolling off him. The witch was silent for a moment before laughing, a surprisingly light, bell-like sound. He had really expected murderous cackling.

“Oh, your pet is more fun than I expected, Witcher! I love happy surprises.”

Jaskier bristled. “Pet? Did she just call me your pet, Geralt? I-I am  _ offended _ , witch, I am  _ no one’s  _ pe-”

“Enough!” she interrupted him, her anger spilling through to sour her saccharine tone. 

“Stop playing games,” Geralt growled, matching her ire with his own. “Release us and tell us why you are doing this.”

Until Geralt said it, Jaskier hadn’t quite put together the trap they were in. He knew it was odd that they were standing in utter darkness, that he felt like he could barely move forward for fear of what he’d run into, but now he realized it was the witch’s own home security system. Unwelcome visitors get sent to the pit of lightless despair. He’d have to fit that line into a song somehow.

“Alright, Witcher.” The honeyed tone was back and the hair on the back of Jaskier’s neck rose with how easily she was giving in to Geralt’s request. “You are free to go.”

With a suddenness that blinded him, light came back into the world and Jaskier was left blinking, one hand shading his eyes, as they stood in a now empty clearing beside the stream. The sun had moved a bit farther to the west, but it was still bright enough to make his unprepared eyes water as he looked around in a confused panic.

Geralt was there, walking in a widening circle around the clearing as he searched for signs of where the witch had gone. He had clearly recovered much faster from the rapid change in light, but the agitation in his steps showed his frustration.

Jaskier started to speak to him, to say something about the strangeness of what had just occurred, but the words seemed to slip from his mind as soon as he held them. He looked around the clearing again, distracted by the sound of birds fluttering in the branches of the trees, of the stream winding its way around the rocks in its path. The sun was so bright. Why was he here? He looked down at himself. His clothes seemed too bright as well, the shimmery fabric catching the sun’s rays and reflecting them back garishly. He was hungry. Did he eat that morning? He felt like he could kill for a good meal. Roasted chicken, or a juicy steak. His mouth watered. 

A squirrel scampered past and his head whipped around to watch as it flitted up a nearby tree, chittering the whole way. He hadn’t climbed a tree since he was a child, but for some reason he wanted to climb after this creature. It seemed to know what it was doing.

“Jaskier.”

A deer and her fawn bounded past in the opposite direction of the tree-climbing squirrel and Jaskier’s attention was once again drawn to the abrupt sound. He watched their white tails disappear through the trees. A vague memory surface in his mind, hazy, of hunting deer once. He’d been young, barely old enough to hold the bow, but his father had stood behind him and guided his hand. The blood had been so red.

“Jaskier.”

He looked up at the source of the voice, a man with wolf eyes staring at him in...concern? He wasn’t sure. He felt dizzy. He was hungry. He kept seeing flashes of that memory in his mind, of the warm, wet blood, of his father’s hand guiding the bow, of the soft sound of a bowstring releasing. It seemed out of order. He wasn’t sure.

“ _ Jaskier. _ ”

The voice was more insistent this time and the mouth that uttered it was twisted in a grimace. It was filled with the teeth of a wolf. Jaskier’s instincts screamed  _ predator _ and he stepped back instantly, drawing the golden sword at his side. He didn’t remember having a sword, but that didn’t matter. Wolves have teeth and claws that bite and scratch and he needs a weapon sharp enough to bite back.

“Jaskier, it’s me. Lower your sword.”

The words filtered through slowly, like syrup. They rattled around in his brain, but they didn’t quite make sense and he shook his head to clear it. Why was this wolf trying to speak to him? He felt more memories scratching at his consciousness, begging for attention, but none of them broke through. 

The wolf tried to step closer, but Jaskier shifted into a defensive stance, sword held high to aim at the predator’s throat. The wolf made a pained noise at this, and Jaskier wondered for a moment if he was going to be successful in scaring it off without a fight.

“Jaskier,” the wolf said again. He kept saying that word. It was familiar. “Please. Listen to me, it’s just the witch messing with your head. Fight through it. I know you can.”

The witch. Yes, that was familiar. He tried to remember, but it came in pieces. Darkness. Missing children. Magic. Geralt.  _ Geralt _ . With a gasp, Jaskier lowered his sword and blinked. The wolf standing before him wasn’t a wolf at all, not really. Not in the sense that he was going to eat him alive.

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s voice sounded strange to his own ears. The witcher sighed in relief.

“It’s me, Jaskier. Can you put the sword away now, please?”

Jaskier looked down and saw that he was still holding the steel blade, sharp and glinting and ominous in his hand. He had been ready to attack Geralt. Oh gods.

The sword slid into its sheath almost silently, despite Jaskier’s trembling fingers. He felt cold, like all the summer warmth had been leached from the air and left him shivering. The hold he had on his rational mind felt tenuous.

Geralt moved closer to him once the sword was stowed away and his hand twitched like he wanted to reach out but stopped himself at the last second. “We need to get back to town.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Geralt.”

“Why not? We need to figure out how to find this witch and get her to lift the curse.”

“I don’t think I should be around people right now.” He looked into Geralt’s eyes to show him the sincerity of his words. He knew, instinctively, that it would take very little to send him back to that spiralling, wordless state of mind that had gripped him only moments before. He wasn’t confident he’d be able to snap himself back out of it.

“Alright,” Geralt said slowly, understanding what Jaskier didn’t say out loud. “We can’t stay here though so we should at least find somewhere to camp for tonight.”

He was talking to Jaskier like he was a spooked horse, low and easy, trying to keep him calm. Jaskier nodded jerkily at the suggestion and indicated for Geralt to lead the way.

“I thought it was too good to be true that she just let us go,” Jaskier joked, though his delivery left something to be desired. “That was wild, I mean, literally. I couldn’t even form words in my  _ head _ , Geralt, and I’m a  _ poet _ . Words are my trade, my livelihood, my bread and butter, as it were. Oh, bread and butter. I’m starving. Don’t think we could catch any of those deer I saw earlier, do you? Actually, on second thought, no deer, please. Definitely no deer.” He shuddered. “You know, I nicknamed you the White Wolf but for a second there, the spell made me actually  _ see _ you as a wolf. It was crazy. I felt like everything that was me was just locked away somewhere in my head and I was just...hungry. And then I was scared. And I’m pretty sure you were speaking to me but it sounded like  _ complete _ gibberish until you said the word ‘witch’ and suddenly - bam! I remembered.”

He knew he was rambling, but he needed to spill all the words out of his head before they took root and festered. “But, hey! You have an actual victim here who can tell you all about being on the receiving end of the curse, so that might help, right? I hope something good can come out of this because it sure didn’t  _ feel _ good.”

They were heading back in the direction of the town, but Geralt changed course after about a mile to head deeper into the woods, away from civilization. It was still afternoon, far earlier than they would ever normally make camp, but it wasn’t long until they found a suitable copse of trees to call home for the night. Geralt made a fire while Jaskier continued rambling.

“She’s certainly more powerful than I expected, that’s for sure. I mean, did you feel it when we first walked up? Like you just wanted to go inside and lie down and have a nice nap? That had to have been magic. I’m never opposed to a good nap, but I generally don’t pick the homes of creepy witches to nap in, you know?”

Geralt still had barely said a word since they’d started walking, but he tensed every time Jaskier paused for too long and looked back at him, golden eyes flashing.

“Anyway, I should have expected it since she bewitched an entire town full of people. I can already feel that this is going to be a great ballad. Possibly one of my best. I wish I had my lute. Or my bedroll. Or at least some of that soup Rana gave us last night. Have I mentioned how hungry I am, Geralt? I could eat just about anything. Except deer.”

“You said that already. Why not deer?”

“Ah, he does retain the ability of speech! I was beginning to wonder. Well, I’m glad you asked. Actually, I’m not because it was a particularly awful moment, but I’ll tell you anyway because you’re my friend. While I was...not myself, I saw those two deer and had a memory of hunting with my father. I, well, I suppose it’s hard to put into words exactly why that’s so awful but at the time all I could think about was how it had felt to kill for the first time and how warm the blood had been on my hands.” He paused, the memory resurfacing. “I was so young. My father had the bow made specifically for me and I was so proud of it, so excited to show him that I could use it, that I was strong enough. I still needed him to help me hold it steady, but I was the one who drew the arrow. I still remember his hand around mine while I held the knife, too scared to finish the kill when I saw how scared she was, when I felt how warm her body was, how fast she breathed.”

“Jaskier.” Geralt’s voice was sharp and it yanked him back into the present. The fire popped and hissed, spitting embers.

“Sorry.” He didn’t know what he was apologizing for, exactly, but he didn’t want to get swept away again. He desperately wanted to stay. He wanted to be Jaskier, not whatever animalistic creature that witch had tried to make him.

“It’s affecting you more quickly than it did the villagers. I’m guessing the witch wanted to keep me distracted so I couldn’t go after her.”

Jaskier felt his guilt rise. He didn’t want to keep Geralt from being able to do his job, that was never his intention. Quite the opposite, in fact. 

“You should go. I’ll be alright here.”

Geralt gave him a very unimpressed glare. Jaskier opened his mouth to argue that he could actually handle himself and that he would never get free of  _ whatever _ this awful feeling was inside his head if the witch wasn’t found and the curse lifted, when a horrible squealing ripped through the air.

The squealing was accompanied by the sound of trampled earth and brush, sounding like an entire hoard of terrified, or possibly angry, hogs. These hogs soon made themselves known by crashing into their little camp with all the fanfare of a mob, their tusks flashing and hooves kicking up dirt as they ran in every direction.

Geralt jumped up, sword in hand, but he seemed confused as to where the danger actually lay. It was clear that the pigs were running  _ from _ something, which was far more concerning than the chaos of the animals themselves. Geralt stood facing the direction they had come from, nose twitching slightly as he tried to make out what was chasing them.

“Bear,” he said suddenly.

“What?” Jaskier was pressed against a tree, holding on to his roiling thoughts like holding a metaphorical bull by the horns. He felt like if he were to let go he’d be gutted.

Geralt didn’t have time to answer, because at that moment a giant brown bear came charging through the trees. It paused when it saw the witcher, pulling up on its back legs to roar impressively. It was easily over eight feet tall. Jaskier felt the grip he had on his humanity slip, sliding further into animalistic panic as he watched the predator take two steps toward Geralt and his sword, the bear’s massive paws tipped with deadly claws.

Around him, the last of the hogs still squealed and fled, chasing after their brethren who had successfully escaped. Their cries sounded almost human in their fear and it struck something in Jaskier like an icy fist. 

_ “It was like they started...acting out of base instinct, like animals. Some people stopped talking all together, just grunting and making sounds like they were some sort of feral creature.” _

Before the thought could fully form in his mind, the bear lashed out and Geralt dodged back neatly, blade darting forward at the same time to slice at the beast’s stomach. Red blood flowed from the wound. Jaskier let go.


	6. Alive and Burning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A door, once opened, may be walked through in either direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a flashback involving rape in this chapter (not too graphic) so please be warned. It's the part in italics.

Geralt braced himself against the impact of the bear’s massive paw, letting the hit land so he could move in close to land a hit of his own with the steel of his blade. The beast roared above him and tried to swat at him again, black talons flashing in the evening light. Distantly, he heard a thump from where Jaskier was huddled against a tree, felt his medallion hum against his chest, and a tiny thrill of fear nearly distracted him from heavy jaws that snapped too close to his forearm for comfort. 

He spared a quick glance over at the bard before focusing on the bear once again. Jaskier was slumped against the roots of the tree, his eyes closed, and there was a faint shimmer of magic around him like a shroud. It hummed and Geralt growled back at it, at the bear that wouldn’t stop attacking him, at this whole fucked up situation. He deftly twisted his sword and swung fiercely, making the bear pull back onto its hind legs again, and pressed his advantage, keeping it on the defensive. He bobbed beneath another swinging paw and lunged, sword piercing the thick, hairy hide of the animal into the heart beneath.

The bear went down with a roar that turned into a whimper, then finally an almost human sounding moan. Geralt yanked his sword free and stood, wiping the blood from the blade. He watched in mounting horror as the bear’s body slowly shrunk, shedding hair and talons, snout receding into a smooth, brown face. A human face. 

Geralt stared down at the naked, bleeding,  _ human _ body before him and felt more of the puzzle click into place. Then he turned around. Jaskier was no longer laying against the tree, body collapsed awkwardly against the snaking roots that had come above ground. His clothes were there, and his sword, but in his place a fox lay, seemingly asleep, its dark, reddish brown fur rising up and down with its even breaths.

\-----

Jaskier floated. He was himself and not himself in a thousand different ways that should not have been possible, ways that would have broken his mind if he had access to more of it, he was sure. He knew, in the vague, distant way of dreams, that he was still in the woods with Geralt, that the witcher was still fighting the bear-that-was-not-a-bear. He knew that he had been cursed. He knew that the roots beneath his back were uncomfortable.

He knew all of that, but he also knew that the witch who cursed him was also in these woods, that she was watching. He knew that she was angry and that beneath that anger lay a well of hurt so deep it was an ocean, deep and wild and dangerous. The kind that drowns. He knew, somehow, that as much as she was in his head, he could be in hers. A door, once opened, may be walked through in either direction.

He stepped through.

_ The sand was blistering hot beneath her back, the fine grains sliding against her exposed skin, burning. Above her, the merciless sun watched impassively, its touch liquid fire. Everything else seemed to float away from her awareness: the dimeritium around her wrists and ankles, the men grunting above her, the pain between her thighs. There was nothing but the burning, the fire that consumed her from the outside in. Her flesh felt raw, the layers that had previously been her now scorched to ash, shifting in the wind with the sand dunes. She barely remembered coming to Korath, didn’t remember why she had even travelled this far south in the first place. Her own name was a foreign concept, lost to the incinerating heat of the desert.  _

_ She had no idea how long she lay there, burning, helpless. Eventually, the sun lost interest in her and went away. The sand cooled beneath her and the air became chilled. She was alone. The skin on her arms and back was blistered and red when she lifted a weak hand to claw at the stone cuffs that drained her energy, pulling her down further into the darkness that was now surrounding her. She clawed and clawed, howling her rage and frustration like the wounded animal she was, her sensitive skin tearing and bleeding under the onslaught before she finally managed to free herself. _

_ She crawled. The sand still held the faintest trace of the heat that had baked the earth those short hours ago and it felt ironic that she craved the warmth now. Shivers travelled up and down her spine and her hands and knees pulled her weak body forward, away, towards anywhere but here. She could feel the dried blood on her thighs flaking away as she moved. She did not allow her mind to think of the other fluids that also dried on her skin.  _

_ It was a long way to the nearest road. Long enough that she found the strength within herself to stand, her legs trembling with effort, putting one foot in front of the other in dogged determination to reach somewhere that she could be safe. Somewhere no one would touch her. She nearly regretted now her decision to reject the Brotherhood, to hide from attempts to train her formally in Aretuza. At least then she would have had somewhere to go, someone to turn to. She had lived her life alone, never relying on anyone. That thought sharpened her, brought a spark of clarity to her numbed mind. She needed no one to come in and rescue her. No one ever had before. What she needed now was a plan. Anger burned in the empty spaces of her mind, fiery warmth spreading to the tips of her now frozen fingers. No one would be coming to help her, but she would be damned if those men did not burn like she had. _

“How dare you,” a voice said in the darkness of his mind. It trembled with rage. He felt the heat of it sparking with each word. “How dare you climb into my mind, touch what is not yours, take from me.”

His voice, when he responded, did not sound like his own. “I did not come to take from you. I came to understand.”

“And do you understand now? Do you think, from what you have seen, that you  _ understand _ me, little fox? How about I show you the rest and you can tell me what it is you think you understand,” she spat.

_ The months that followed were a hazy blur in her memory. She remembered stumbling into the nearest town, clothes torn and filthy, half mad with rage, dehydration, and exhaustion, but she found herself a room at an inn, ordered a bath, and gave a glare that promised death upon anyone who so much as looked as though they might touch her. She cried that first night, overwhelmed in body and mind, as she passed the wet cloth over her tender skin. She dreamt of fire, of an endless, undulating sea of flame, of silent screams.  _

_ The next few weeks were spent in search of books. She went to every library she had ever heard of, then charmed, bribed, or lied her way into private collections, searching for ways to teach herself the control and skills she had never formally learned. She poured over the words, practicing night and day to harness the Chaos within her, to manipulate it into something that she could use. Her magic had always been wild, unpredictable, like her nature. Her father had said it was because she had a fire in her to match her fiery red hair, which had always been as untamable as her spirit. To catch it, like lightning in a bottle, felt dangerous, wrong, like putting a tiger in a cage and expecting not to be bitten. She had no such reserves now as she ruthlessly enforced her own discipline. _

_ The longer she studied, the larger her belly grew. She ignored the problem growing inside her, focusing instead on nurturing the fire that burned on steadily, the blaze that she cupped in her hands at night to hold off the shaking, the flames that would free her once and for all from this hell in which she was now living, the memories of that day always so close to closing their sharp toothed jaws around her fleeing ankles as she fought to live through another day. _

_ Finally, finally, her plan was perfect. She was ready. She knew the spells, knew every step that she needed to take. Once the last knife was placed on her belt, she straightened, willing her mind to ignore the heaviness of her belly, her swollen ankles. She took a determined step forward, hand outstretched in preparation to make a portal, only to nearly fall to her knees as an unexpected wave of agony came from her abdomen. No, she begged the universe desperately, not now. She waited, but no further pain came and she sighed in relief. The ground was soaked beneath her feet, her pants dripping with it, and she wrinkled her nose in disgust. She would not turn back now. It was too late, her plan was in motion. She opened the portal, leaving her cramped, paper-strewn workspace behind to step again into the hostile wasteland of sand and heat. The fire burned. _

_ She took a step forward, her boots sinking into the sand, and was again overcome by a wave of agony. She bit her lip to keep from crying out. Her rage grew. She would allow nothing to stop her from getting her revenge, nothing to stop her from razing every last man who had touched her to ash. _

_ She walked determinedly through the sand, using the afternoon sun to guide her southeast. She had portalled as close as possible to where she knew the soldiers would be, their golden coat of arms a shining beacon calling to her in the bright daylight. However, she was still at least a mile from their patrol, provided she meet up with them within the next hour before they turned due south to continue towards the Nilfgaardian border. _

_ Another terrible wave of pain brought her steps to a halt and she had to focus on her breathing to keep from screaming. Despite her best efforts to consciously ignore what was happening, she wondered why the contractions were happening so fast. Wasn’t birth supposed to be a long process? She barely had fifteen more minutes before another contraction pulled her to knees and she pressed her fist to her mouth, biting down on her knuckles. She wept in frustration. _

_ She tried to stand, but the sand, her round belly, and the pain kept her from succeeding. She fell forward onto her hands, fingers clawing into the hot sand, and choked back a sob. Life had never felt so cruel as it did in that moment. She crawled. This time, the sand had not cooled and it scraped and blistered against her body as she pulled herself toward a weathered boulder which promised meager shade for her upcoming ordeal. She was panting, her sides heaving, skin salty with sweat by the time she arrived at the rock. She braced her back against it and breathed through another contraction, keeping her screams silent beneath the emotionless sun. _

_ Time stretched and thinned around her, becoming insubstantial as smoke, as dreams. She took back her earlier thoughts about it all happening too fast; it was interminable. The sky above her faded from pale blue to inky black, a disturbing parallel to another night in this same desert, under this same sky, her screams just as silent and unheard. At last, a high cry pierced the night and it was done. She lay there, lungs heaving, and stared at the bloody, disgusting creature that she had just pushed out of her. This was the product of all her suffering. This was the reason she had not unleashed her Chaos today and set loose the tiger from its cage, freed the lightning from its bottle. _

_ She pulled her dagger and severed the cord that connected them. The creature kept crying, but it became quieter, turning to soft whimpers and cries as she pushed herself away from it. She used the sand to scrub at her thighs before pulling her pants back over her hips. She stood. The creature was still crying, its red face contorted with its unhappiness. She sympathized. _

_ Her body felt battered, bruised from head to toe. But that fire still raged, the flames not yet doused, and she knew where the soldiers would be tonight. She turned away from the whimpering creature and opened another portal. She had barely stepped through before she let go of her Chaos, the rage building into something incandescent and insatiable. _

Jaskier felt tears on his face, but they were not real because he was not real, not in this place. “I am sorry,” he said. “For what happened to you.”

The witch made a noise of derision but did not answer.

“What happened to the child?”

The witch’s rage boiled into something nearly visible, even in this place of nothingness. “He was  _ stolen _ from me! I came back for him after I burned them all to ash and charred bones and he was gone. I remembered him, after, when I came back to myself. I remembered my baby and I went back for him and he wasn’t there because he had been  _ taken from me _ just like everything is always taken. People are only animals, little fox, and they do what pleases them, no matter who it hurts.”

“I understand.” And he did, he thought, in this place, with his thoughts mingling with hers, their emotions coalescing into a single being. He understood her better than he thought he’d ever understood anyone.

“I believe you,” she said softly, and shoved him back into the light.


	7. Run with the Foxes, Hunt with the Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and the fox learn to communicate. Sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you know, so much research on foxes happened to make this chapter. They make the weirdest noises I stg.

The world had narrowed down to rust-colored fur, a wet, black nose, and the swirling, sinking vortex of horror that sucked at Geralt’s breath, leaving him faintly gasping as he cautiously stepped closer to the creature that had been - still was? - Jaskier.

Ever since Jaskier had started following him in Posada, bright-eyed and determined, Geralt had feared that he would get hurt just by being too close to a witcher. That one day Geralt would be too slow to save him or, as had just happened, he would miss something vital in clues around him and it would cost Jaskier dearly.

Geralt forced his lungs to expand. The bard wasn’t dead. There was no reason to be as dramatic as the man himself, even if he had just  _ turned into a fox _ . Animal transformations weren’t an entirely uncommon brand of magic, though this felt like nothing he’d ever experienced before. There was something deeper to this curse, a darkness, a thread of desperate rage that smelled like iron and ash. 

The fox suddenly leapt to his feet in a flurry of motion, sharp claws shredding the fine silk clothes that surrounded him. He looked around, eyes flashing in the dimming light. It was growing darker now as night steadily approached. Geralt spared a quick thought for what other creatures - human or otherwise - might still be lurking in the trees before he took another careful step and knelt, only a couple feet away from the panicking fox.

“Jaskier?” he tried. He had no true hope that Jaskier could understand him in this state, but there was something about his eyes that wasn’t like a normal fox. The irises were still the same cornflower blue, only thin lines of rust marking the change. 

The fox seemed to grin at him, arching his back and curling his body, ears pressed flat against his skull. He crouched low, tail flicking back and forth. Geralt held his hands out in front of his chest, palms facing out, and did his best to make himself seem non-threatening. It wasn’t an easy task, but Geralt often practiced making himself unobtrusive as much as possible.

“Jaskier, it’s me. I’m not going to hurt you.” 

Slowly, the fox’s back relaxed from its arch and uncurled. He didn’t raise from his crouch and his tail continued to flick nervously, darting side to side, but there was some recognition in his eyes. Enough to encourage Geralt to continue.

“It’s alright. I know you’re scared. We’ll figure it out, I promise. We just need to get back to town and talk to Rana. I think there are some details she left out.” This last he said with a bit of a growl, unable to keep his anger contained. There was no way Rana hadn’t known the extent of the curse and yet she’d sent them out here without that vital information, into a trap.

He glanced quickly at Jaskier, worried that his tone might have frightened him, but was instead surprised to see that he’d moved closer, head tilted slightly to the side. His body was still held low, muzzle reaching up as he approached, but his ears were now alert, swiveling inquisitively as he sniffed. Jaskier made a small noise, almost like that of an owl hooting. He crept closer, nose still twitching, and Geralt made sure to hold perfectly still as to not startle him. The fox’s fur was coarser than he expected when it brushed against his outstretched hand. He took a deep, slow inhale, forcing himself not to hold his breath.

“Jaskier, can you understand me?” 

A slow, hesitant nod. Geralt took another shaky breath. His fingers shook slightly when they reached out to touch the sides of Jaskier’s face, his neck, sliding down to his side to pull him closer until he was cradling the bard-turned-fox in his arms, grateful beyond words that, at the very least, Jaskier was alive and cognizant. Witchers knew how to appreciate small blessings.

Jaskier nuzzled more deeply into Geralt’s chest, making small noises the whole time as though trying to speak, but it came out garbled and more like the entire forest was trying to speak through his mouth. It was all huffs and clucks and hoots, every sound that would not automatically be logically attributed to a fox, yet expressive enough that Geralt thought he understood the gist. 

_ I’m glad you’re alright too. I’m scared. We need to fix this.  _

“I know,” Geralt murmured roughly. “In the morning we’ll go talk to Rana and I’ll figure out a way to fix this. I’ll kill that witch if I have to.”

He was shocked to feel Jaskier’s needle sharp teeth nip at his bicep, neatly aimed for a sliver of space between the plates of his armor. “Ow, fuck, Jaskier! What? You  _ don’t  _ want me to find a way to change you back?”

Jaskier made a frustrated sound and smacked his head against the witcher’s chest. Geralt was sure that, if he still had his human form, he would have rolled his eyes. 

“Then what? You don’t want to go back to town? I’m pretty sure everyone there is used to what this curse does by now.” He was met with an unimpressed glare. It was somehow even less intimidating from him as a fox than from him as a human. Perhaps it was the fact that he was still curled against his chest like a kitten. He thought about what else he had said for the bard to take objection with. “The witch? You don’t want me to kill her?”

Jaskier’s emphatic nod did nothing to aid Geralt’s confusion. Did Jaskier know something he didn’t? If he’d known before tonight, he’d have mentioned whatever it was. Unless he didn’t even know he possessed pertinent information until the witch somehow got into his head earlier. He found his mind swimming with unanswered questions. Questions that couldn’t be answered until Jaskier regained the ability to speak or he finally found the witch. He didn’t even know her name yet. He’d gone into this hunt almost entirely blind and unprepared. Foolish and amateur. Vessimir would have his hide if he knew how much Geralt had fucked up this job.

As it was though, there was nothing he could do to solve it right now except make sure he and Jaskier were safe for the night until he could go back to the start of this nightmare and hopefully shed some light on it all.

He set Jaskier down carefully and stood, looking around their trampled and bloody campsite. They would have to find a new place to sleep if they didn’t want scavengers coming to investigate the smell of a fresh kill. He suppressed a shudder when he looked over at the body of the man who had been a bear only a few hours ago. Guilt ate at him like acid. He should have seen the signs, should have felt the magic that surrounded the attacking beast, should have thought beyond the need to protect Jaskier behind him. Now an innocent man was dead at his hands. The blood itched on his skin. 

“Come on, Jask. We need to move.” He scooped up the brightly colored clothes at the base of the tree along with the borrowed sword and his dagger. At least Jaskier had left his lute behind this time. He would likely have had a fit if it got damaged because of all this, heedless of the trauma to his own person. Geralt shook his head at the thought and looked down at the little fox, who tilted his head at him and gave a high pitched whine. 

Geralt didn’t bother answering, since he had no idea what Jaskier was trying to say, and instead headed farther into the woods, making sure that they would still easily be able to reach town in the morning. Jaskier kept up with him, trotting along with his tail occasionally brushing his calf, nose twitching as he took in the smells of the forest. Geralt imagined it was probably overwhelming for him, as it had been for him when he first survived the Trials. He was handling it well though, and even darted off a few times to inspect a flower that smelled particular good or pounce on a brightly colored bug that caught his attention. By the time they got to a spot Geralt deemed safe enough for the night, Jaskier was panting and eagerly leaving his side every thirty seconds to investigate something else.

Geralt let him have his fun while he built a fire, gathering the dry wood into a pile and lighting it with Igni. He wished they had their packs and bedrolls, but thankfully it was warm enough that the lack of blanket wouldn’t be a problem, even now that the sun had fully set. Jaskier came to join him in front of the fire after a few minutes and thoroughly surprised him by dropping two dead rabbits at his feet, looking pleased with himself.

“Thank you,” he said sincerely and Jaskier practically wiggled with happiness. He was always expressive, usually overly so, but as a fox he was an open book. Geralt set about skinning and cooking the rabbits, feeling Jaskier’s gaze on him while he worked. The quiet between them was odd, especially since Jaskier was  _ here _ and just couldn’t fill the silence like he usually did. There were no exaggerated stories or terrible flirting attempts or half finished songs. It was just the crickets and the ribbits of frogs, and the faint murmur of a creek not too far away.

“So,” Geralt said, his voice sounding too loud in the dark, “we should probably figure out a way to communicate. I don’t exactly speak fox.”

Jaskier tilted his head in thought. Geralt would deny to his death bed ever thinking that it was the most adorable thing he’d ever seen. After a moment’s consideration, he tilted his head to the other side and looked at Geralt. Then he nodded his head slowly before shaking it from side to side. It was the weirdest game of charades Geralt had ever played. Not that he’d played many games of charades.

“You want me to ask you yes or no questions?” A nod, yes. “Okay. Do you know anything about the witch who cursed you?” Yes. “Do you know who she is?” A pause, then a slow shake. “Hmm. Did she...speak to you? In your mind, when she cursed you?” A nod.

This game was more difficult than taking on a wyvern. How was he supposed to know what questions to ask? “Is Rana involved in this?” Jaskier tilted his head. Geralt took that to mean he didn’t know the answer. “Are the others from the village alive? Besides...besides the one who was turned into a bear?” Another head tilt, but Jaskier moved forward and rested his head on Geralt’s knee, sensing his guilt and trying to reassure him. Geralt didn’t know how to explain that it didn’t matter what Jaskier thought, there was much of this that was his fault, especially that man’s death. They would go back for his body in the morning and bring it back to town, hopefully to his family who would bury him properly.

“What of the children that the witch took? Do you know if they are alive?” This time Jaskier nodded. He hadn’t expected him to know the answer to this question any more than he had the previous, but it was a relief to know the two boys were alive at least. He didn’t know any other straight forward questions to ask about the witch and her curse, so he moved on to asking about how Jaskier was doing.

“Are you in pain?” No. Geralt expelled a heavy breath from his lungs at the relief that poured through him. “Good. Earlier, you were confused and not yourself, but now you seem lucid and aware. Are you fighting the spell somehow?”

He tilted his head, but this time Jaskier seemed to be considering. Then, he hesitantly nodded and reached up a paw to touch the side of his head.

“Is she still in your mind, talking to you?” No. “The spell is in your mind and you’re resisting it?” Yes. Okay, that was good. For now, at least. How long could Jaskier keep fighting though? Would he become as feral and mindless as those other animals they’d seen earlier today? 

The rabbits were finally done cooking and the two of them ate quickly, sharp teeth devouring tender roasted meat with fervor. When they were done, Geralt lay down next to the banked fire, his swords lying next to him, and pillowed his head on his hands to stare up at the stars beyond the canopy of trees. Jaskier flopped gracelessly next to him on his back, paws sticking up in the air so he could look at the stars with him. Geralt couldn’t help but laugh at the sight he made, like an overturned beetle.

Jaskier glared at him indignantly and rolled over onto his front, now a foot away rather than pressed to Geralt’s side.

“No, come on,” Geralt protested, trying to contain his mirth, “don’t be like that. It was funny. You would have laughed too if you could have seen you.”

Jaskier huffed at him, ears flicking back, but he reluctantly crawled back over and pressed against the witcher’s side again, though he remained firmly on his stomach. They lay in companionable silence until Geralt heard Jaskier’s soft breaths even out in sleep. 

The next morning, Geralt woke up feeling disoriented, a soft, warm weight on his chest snuffling against his neck. He looked down. It was Jaskier, curled up on his sternum with his nose pressed against Geralt’s collarbone. He was in the smallest ball he could make himself with his tail acting as his own blanket over his tiny paws. Something even warmer than the fox’s small heat source pulsed through Geralt’s slow beating heart. He was reluctant to move and wake him, but it couldn’t be helped.

“Wake up, bard.” Jaskier stirred but didn’t open his eyes. Geralt put his hand on the fox’s back and shook lightly. “I said wake up, Jaskier.”

Blue eyes blinked at him. Then Jaskier stretched, not bothering to get off Geralt to do so, his front paws just barely missing his face. Geralt was certain he was doing it to be as annoying as possible.

He sat up, letting Jaskier fall into his lap with a yelp. He laughed down at the fox’s betrayed face, smiling fondly. “It’s time to get up. I hope you slept well.” Jaskier clambered off his legs, doing his best to grumble but mostly just making strange, high pitched noises.

The walk back to town took considerably less time than it had taken to get to the witch’s cottage, partially because of the distance they’d already covered and partially because Geralt was able to move as fast as he pleased with Jaskier running beside him on four legs instead of two. There was also no complaining about the pace, so that was a bonus. He had belted Rana’s sword to his hip and was carrying Jaskier’s clothes under one arm, now neatly folded. At least the bard wouldn’t be able to complain about ruined clothes at the end of this.

Once they arrived, Geralt didn’t bother with the politeness of knocking on Rana’s door. He simply broke the latch and let himself in, Jaskier trailing behind like a loyal terrier.

“What in the - Geralt?” Rana exclaimed, rushing into the hall at the sound of her house being broken into. She held a kitchen knife in one hand and a hammer in the other. Unconventional weapons, but effective in the right hands. 

“We need to talk,” Geralt growled, pinning her in place with his furious stare. Her eyes flicked from his to the fox at his feet and back.

“I see,” she said faintly. “I had hoped it would be easier than this, but I see now that that was foolishness. Perhaps I am getting old and daft. Come into the kitchen, both of you. I’ve got a story to tell.”

**Author's Note:**

> I cannot get these two out of my head since watching the Witcher and the idea of Jaskier being secretly so much more than he appears on the surface (which is already a Blessing, thank you), is extremely intriguing.


End file.
